


Pardon Atlas

by Continuedinterests



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, F/M, Guilt, Luckily he has friends and family, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark Coparenting Peter Parker, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter hits a wall he can't climb over, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Pre-Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie), Swearing, a touch of BAMF Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 09:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Continuedinterests/pseuds/Continuedinterests
Summary: He can do this.  He can do all of this. He can keep his grades up, he can maintain his friendships. Maybe he can even do something about how much he's been staring at MJ lately.  He can keep his word to Aunt May and Mr. Stark, and he can save the people of New York City, even from themselves. He just has to get his shit together.Or.No, he can't do all these things, and everyone is starting to wonder why he seems so hell bent on trying.What's going on with Peter Parker?
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 176





	Pardon Atlas

**Author's Note:**

> Right. I put this rating on mature, but I think it might really be a high teen? I should say, there isn't anything all that crazy in here, but there are some very specific mentions of darker themes and the general grossness of the world. So. To be safe, I'm marking it as mature.

They always have similarly surprised faces whenever their hand gets webbed to a wall. They stare at the white strings. They tug and tug, and grimacing, turn to look at him. Some plead, some curse, some take out a knife or gun and try to do something, their other hand inevitably also getting stuck.

But that initial tug. That look of desperate anger. It’s always the same. He wishes he had MJ’s talent, so he could capture it, make a composite.

He’s sitting in lit class one day, the teacher looking ill, just gives them a handout to work on in pairs. MJ and Ned aren’t in this class. He does a cursory glance around to make sure there isn’t some other awkward looking kid left adrift, but no. Everyone shuffles, murmurs, a laugh, some screeching of desk chairs as they move them closer.

The teacher drops her head in her head, rubs her temples, pale. He wonders if she’s hung over.

He starts filling out the worksheet absently, tuning out the conversations around him with expert ease made of necessity. He glances again at the first question, focusing more. He doesn’t get it at all. The title of the worksheet is “An Analysis of Shakespeare's a Mid Summer’s Night’s Dream”. He doesn’t remember anything about this. He thought they were on some of his sonnets.

He digs through the chaos of his backpack, pulls out the slim and now very crumpled copy of the play, the front cover bent right in half.

Crap.

The teacher looks at him, glancing from his lost expression to the ruffled book in his hand and shakes her head again, putting her head back in her hands, not looking at him the rest of class.

Once, in the seventh grade, a teacher, thinking Peter was out of ear shot, told his uncle that she thought Peter was the sweetest, most mature and put together kid she knew, and she just knew, knew that he was going to really go places. Uncle Ben practically beamed in pride.

He lets out a breath and starts to read instead. The pair behind him quickly get off track, start talking about girls. The amount of conversations about dating he’s had to tune out since he’s gotten his powers makes him shiver sometimes. There’s something edged with bitterness being said though, and it breaks through his concentration.

“I don’t know, man, chicks just like to complain sometimes though. Like, Jesus, not everything is a threat. Can’t even tell a bitch that they look hot without them flipping you off, ya know?”

There’s an awkward laugh, then whoever he’s talking to just says. “I don’t know, man, maybe just shut the fuck up instead?”

He grins into his book, but then his mind wanders to the shrieks of people cornered in alleyways, pants already forced to their knees; the jerks that follow, swearing and swearing, for blocks; hands over mouths, tears dripping on to uncaring fingers.

There’s always something, something happening quietly, too quietly, in dark corners where they think that no one will help. Until he shows up and webs their hands to the walls and they make that expression, every time. All that desperate anger.

He meant to read this when there was a quieter night. Come home early from patrol, sit cross legged in the middle of the floor, no blanket, nothing to lean against, so he doesn’t fall asleep.

There’s never a quiet night. Always something.

He’s still reading it at home, his leg shaking, bouncing on the couch as he tries to force himself to understand the words as fast as possible. They have a test on this at the end of the week.

“-ter, earth to Peter. Heeelllooo.” May’s in front of him, her face in a wide smile. She blinks, satisfied, when his eyes met hers. “Are you all set for tomorrow night?”

He flips through the pages of his brain, but nothing’s highlighted. “Tomorrow night?”

Her frown of disappointment makes his stomach clench. The way that she shakes her head, just slightly, smooths away the frown with a small smile, makes the clench burn a little. “Yeah, I have the big girl’s night out, remember? I mean, it most likely-”

“Will just turn into you all getting wine drunk on Stacy’s living room floor. I know, I remember now. I- I just didn’t realize that it was tomorrow already.”

Her smile softens into something more genuine. She reaches out and pulls her hand through his hair. She’s wearing scrubs, which means a night shift. “So that means that you won’t be seeing me for a couple of days. And that means-”

“No patrolling after eleven, text whenever I get home, don’t ignore your texts, if anything goes wrong with the superhero stuff, call Mr. Stark right away.”

She gives his curls an affectionate tug. “Good. I larb you.”

“And I Pad Thai you.” He grins up at her as she snorts.

He returns the wave she gives him on the way out and then turns back to the book. He flips the page, realizes that he doesn’t know what’s happening at all, turns back, checks the clock. It’s already six. He really needs to get started patrolling at seven, if he wants to prevent stuff instead of clean it up, but he also needs to do this now so that he can wrap up his calc two homework later. He had planned to do that worksheet in class tomorrow, quick, then move on to whatever pre-test assignment she has planned.

He closes the book with a groan a few minutes later, some energy thrumming through and through and through, in waves, so that he can’t sit, his mind jumping to the fear in people’s eyes, tucked away someplace quiet, too quiet, to the way that Ben beamed with pride, to the way that Mr. Stark frowned when he asked if Peter had practiced any of the defense training they had gone over, why does he have another hole in his suit, to the worksheet he still had to make up. The Calc homework he has to get to.

He pulls out his phone, his thumb tapping against the side, once, twice, he bites his lip, then taps a few times on the screen, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Peter?”

“Hey, MJ listen, I really-”

“You called me.”

“I - yes, I was hoping-”

“Like, your voice is coming to me live.”

He stares down at the screen with furrowed eyebrows, then puts it back to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“Peter, I think as a member of the youths, I have to arrest you. You actually called with a phone. I’m pretty sure that makes you a criminal in some circles.”

“Oh. I could always text, I just thought it might be a lot to type-”

“No. It’s fine, loser. What’s up?”

He grins a little. “What do I need to know about “A Midsummer's Night Dream?’”

“Here’s the neat thing about that. If you read it, then you’ll know.”

“I can’t. I just - I can’t. We have a test Friday and I’m just - every time I try I can’t seem to take anything in. I only have two days to finish it and I don’t think I have the time-”

“Peter, what do you do all the time? Why are you so busy?”

Her voice is different. Softer, somehow. The lies about the Stark Internship sit in his throat, unable to rise against it. The silence drags on, limp and scraping against the gravel of seconds.

“Whatever. You have Davis, right? Did she give you a worksheet?”

He swallows, his stomach clenching again. “Yeah.”

“That worksheet is pretty much the test. I’ll walk you through the questions. I tutored a kid on this last year.”

“Last year?”

“Yeah. I’m in AP lit this year.”

“Oh. That makes sense. Thank you. Seriously.”

“Yeah. Maybe if I help you with enough lit assignments, someday you’ll actually tell me what’s up with you.”

He sucks in a breath, surprised at the flurry of emotions in that sentence; hints, like snowflakes, all individual but coming together, anger there, sadness over there, worry layered in between.

“MJ-”

“What’s the first question, Peter?” Her voice sighs, sorry.

Later, as he swings through the side streets, flings himself into construction sites, stands silent, listening, in darkened corners of complicated back alleyways, he thinks about what MJ said about the Fairy realm. He wonders if there is anything like that. Aliens are real. Mythic gods are real. Why not fairies?

As he pulls a man off a younger boy, the man’s knife clattering to the floor as he slams into the far wall of the abandoned room they’re in, he thinks it might be nice to have something whimsical, mischievously evil, instead of this, all the time, this. Over and over again, this.

The boy stands, shaky, adjusts his clothes.

Peter webs the man to the wall. “Let’s call the police.”

The boy shakes his head, once, then twice. “I just wanna go home.”

“Kid, the man-”

He leaves, his steps light and fast. Peter follows, he’s not sure why, no plan forming. The kid ducks and weaves, the thin fabric of his jacket flying behind him like a cape. He skids to a stop in front of a worn looking building, presses the heel of his hands to his eyes. The door in the arched entryway opens, and Peter notices for the first time the faded sign that says simply, Care Center.

An old woman steps out, something wrapped around her rounded shoulders, her face grave with worry. “Lukas? It’s nearly eleven at night. Are you, is everything-

“I- I got stuck. Spider-man helped me out.”

“Stuck? What do you mean, Spider-man?”

“There was a weird cellar door. My leg fell through.”

Her eyebrows raise, looking at his completely unharmed pant leg to his shaking mouth, and even across the street, sticking to the side of a building, he can see she doesn’t believe him. But she just nods, blinking rapidly, her shoulders hunching in further, as she takes Lukas inside.

He lifts his arm and swings up into the air, thinking to check around the sex workers’ house a few blocks away that’s been having a few brutal assaults recently. “Karen, please add this neighborhood to the watch list.”

“Sure thing, Peter.”

He gets home just after one thirty.

There are three texts and a missed call with a message from Aunt May.

“Shit.”

Aunt Larb 10:34 pm:  
Hey sweetie, how’s the night going?

Aunt Larb 11:24 pm:  
It’s pretty busy here, but not too crazy, which is nice. Was it crazy for you out there?

Aunt Larb 12:12 am:  
Peter, you said you’d answer my texts, remember? Are you still out patrolling? You have school tomorrow.

He presses the phone to his ear to listen to the message. “Hey. I’m sure you just lost sense of time, just got wrapped up in what you were doing. But, Peter, please.” There’s a pause, some sort of shuffle against the phone on her end. A second longer of silence. Then she’s speaking again, her voice a little hoarse sounding. “I can’t help but have my thoughts go from worry to worry about you b-bleeding out somewhere, me just thinking you’re being flaky, but this time it’s not that. This time you’re hurt. I just - It makes me feel sick sometimes, how worried - I know I’m not home enough. But it would be so helpful, really help me, if you’d just text here and there. And I’ll try not to worry too much. But. Just.” She sighs, and then hangs up.

He leans against the wall, rubbing his hand over his face. He tries to call her back, leaves a short message that he’s fine, she was right, he just got wrapped up in stuff. He texts her the same, slips out of his suit, takes a shower, changes into pajamas.

Some time in all this, Ned sent him basically an essay on his opinion of the latest Star Wars, all said, now that he’s had time to let it all sink in.

He lays down to read it, but his eyes slip shut, heavy. He can’t take in a word.

The next day the sun angles in bright, hitting his eyes, and he jerks awake.

Angles in. The sun shouldn’t be there right now. He grabs his phone but it’s dead. He swears, plugging it into the wall before running out to the kitchen. The stove says it’s 8:00.

Damn. Damn it.

He swings to school, already missing first period, changes in an alcove between a shed and the gym, runs inside, his backpack flapping this way and that. He notices that he’s buttoned two buttons wrong and his fly is down before he skids into his calc class ten minutes late.

“Ah. Mr. Parker. Nice of you to grace us with your presence.”

“S-sorr-”

“As I was saying. I need you all to pass forward the homework on polar functions. Today we will be using those skills to deepen our understanding of-”

Peter slides into the nearest desk, Mr. Conner’s voice fading into the background of his panicked mind.

He completely spaced the Calc homework.

The class passes forward their sheets. The teacher starts on their next topic. Peter takes notes, his mind focused completely now, not drifting as it does sometimes to all the things people do when they think they can get away with it. He feels like his skin is a little fuzzy, like things aren’t aligned right in him. He can’t believe that he forgot that homework. He had been thinking about it all day.

Later, after Mr. Conner’s passes out more handouts, when Peter has two full pages of notes he tucks into his stuffed backpack, later, when he starts to feel a bit better, Mr. Conner’s voice stops him at the doorway.

“Parker.”

Just his name, but Mr. Conner’s always had something steely about him.

He turns on his heel, steps in front of his desk, feels absurd. Last night he threw a man into a wall. Now he’s clasping his hands in front of him, unable to meet the dark eyes of a mild mannered teacher.

It doesn’t matter, really. Those two things are not related.

“You have a C. For some student’s I would give them a high five. For you, I can’t wrap my head around it. How do you have a C in my class? I think if you actually paid attention all the time, you’d be able to teach it.”

He feels stuck, his hands clasped, his mind blank.

The silence drags until Mr. Conner sighs. “Is it arrogance? Like you already get it, so why bother? We can test you out if you're bored. But I don’t think that’s it. You pick it up faster than anyone I know, but you still have to learn it -”

“I’m trying.”

The teacher sighs, leans back in his chair, spinning a pen in between his fingers, considering him. “Maybe. But not in my class. Not a lot of classes, from what I’ve been hearing. What’s going on with you, Peter?”

He used to stick to the sunlight, swing between the bright buildings, land on the proud austere brownstone ones. He used to get churros from nice old ladies he gave directions to. He did back flips to lazy cheers. He used to call Happy and talk about anything at all that happened. He used to be a little bored. He stopped some muggings, some thieves, the sun and air beneath him as he took selfies.

Then, one day after Vulture, after he thought he had learned so much, he heard it, a gasp. Small, he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been texting Mr. Stark just then, but pained. He dropped down into the alley, but there wasn’t anything. He heard low murmuring, turned left twice, ended up by a dumpster in an alcove, staring, startled for a second, at a woman pushed face forward against the wall, a man holding a knife to her cheek.

He had told Mr. Stark that he wanted to stay close to the ground. Turns out the ground is frequently covered in shit.

“Peter?” Mr. Conner’s face has lost that teacher look, the one tinged with bored authority. Instead he looks worried, leaning forward in his chair, eyebrows drawn together. His voice is very different now, soft. “Is everything good at home?”

His eyes snap up. Oh great, now he’s getting May into trouble. “Yes. Totally. That’s not it. I’m, I just feel like I’m being pulled a lot of directions, and I don’t know, I keep losing track of everything.”

Mr. Conner’s expression shifts again, somewhere between the two he’s had so far. “Prioritizing, organization and time management are all important skills, if you go to the counselor's office, they have -”

The bell rings again. Peter grimaces. “I have to go.” He turns to leave, quickly getting to the door.

“Wait! Peter, I can give you a pass-”

But he’s already halfway down the hall.

He forgot his lunch in his panic this morning. He just continues to stare into his bag, like he has suddenly developed the ability to materialize items as well as Spider enhancements.

“You look like crap.”

“Thanks, MJ, I love you too.” He glances up, surprised to see her cheeks red, startled. The expression disappears like a garage door sliding closed. The hint of red remains.

“I mean you look like you want to just, like, crumple away into dust.”

“It’s not been my best day. I forgot my lunch.”

“You want some of mine?”

He watches as she pulls out a grocery brown bag and flops it on the table. Out comes a small loaf of bread, a bag from the deli of what looks like turkey. He can’t see what else is in there.

“Meant to make a sandwich last night, forgot. Thought I’d just bring the whole thing.”

“I guess I wasn’t the only one having a disorganized morning.”

“Yet, note, my disorganized results in lunch for two.”

“A much better version.” He grins at her as she hands him some slices. She grins back. He’s never noticed before, but she has just the slightest dimple on her left cheek.

“Peter. You never responded man. I was considering submitting it for the Pulitzer, but that kind of dampened my spirits, dude.” Ned’s there, sliding into the seats opposite them, bringing out his own lunch bag.

“Oh man, sorry, I actually haven’t read that yet.”

Ned looks up, his expression wounded. “Of anyone, I would have thought you’d have.” Ned’s joking, already biting into his sandwich. But there’s something in the way that he’s not really looking at him that means he’s actually a little hurt.

Peter spends the rest of lunch eating his cobbled together sandwich and reading Ned’s essay, tuning out their debate on the pros and cons of different essay structures.

Aunt May calls him on the way home from school. “I asked Tony and he said that your suit was activated until 1:30 in the morning. And then I get a call from your school this morning telling me that you missed first period.”

The words slip out before he really thinks. “I think I liked it better when you hated him. You two working together is the worst.”

Thankfully, she just laughs, though it’s short lived, quickly replaced by a sigh. “Maybe I shouldn’t go tonight-”

“What? Why? No. I promise I won’t stay out too late -”

“Not good enough, your word is getting a little shaky lately Peter.”

That hurts, all at once. It doesn’t sink in or work up or anything else. It just feels bad, right away.

“Tony and I think it might be best if you stay at the Tower with him tonight. But if you don’t want to go, it’s not the end of the world if I-”

“No. No. Of course I don’t mind staying at Iron-man’s house.”

Truth is, he minds a little. And he thinks about how ridiculous he would have found that a half a year ago. But it’s true. Just a little.

Once, Aunt May watched him stick a fork in the toaster. He was ten, Ben already gone to work, when he could see that just one corner of his toast was getting scorched while the rest was pinched too high, raw. He just wanted to nudge it down. Aunt May stepped into the kitchen, pushing a hoop earring into place, and stood still at the sight of her nephew on a stool, leaning over the toaster, fork in hand.

“Yeah, you’re not going to want to do that.”

Peter huffed. “It’ll be fine.”

He’s not sure where this confidence came from, upon reflection, but Aunt May just crossed her arms over her chest, pursed her lips, and watched as his fork slipped, giving his arm a shock.

He cried out, toppled back off the stool, fork clattering to the floor, the smell of something he’s never smelled before in the air around him. She went quickly to him, kneeling next to him, one hand in his hair, the other turning his arm this way and that.

He didn’t cry. Nothing actually hurt. He was just more surprised than anything. Upon seeing this herself, she patted his cheek and smirked. “See? You should listen to me.”

Another time, when he was eleven or twelve, he kept forgetting to take out the trash. It wasn’t an act of rebellion. He just couldn’t seem to remember.

“What should we do if we keep making the same mistakes over and over?”

“Uh. I guess change something?” He had been taking apart a game boy, not really listening.

“So what are you going to change?”

The inside of it was less complex looking than he expected. “I’ll write myself a note, put it on my door, to help myself remember.”

“Good.”

He still forgot.

“What are you going to do now, since the note didn’t work?”

He was trying to finish up this pre-algebra homework as fast as possible so he could go play baseball with Ben before it gets dark. He taps his pencil against his desk. “I don’t know. Does it really matter? You all always take it out just fine.”

He went still, already knowing that wasn’t a good answer. He turned slowly to look at her, but she didn’t look angry or hurt or anything terrible like that. Instead a slow smile spread across her face, and somehow that was worse.

The next week, the trash is placed in his room. Whenever he moves it out, it always ends up back in there.

The week after that he doesn’t forget.

Mr. Stark’s has different methods.

“So. You can’t follow through on the very minimal rules that your Aunt is setting out for you.” He’s spinning a screwdriver in his hand, focusing on a pile of cloth and wires in front of him.

“I can’t.” He drops his overnight bag on the floor. Apparently they aren’t going to exchange hellos.

Mr. Stark takes two wires and wraps them together. “Why not?”

“I can’t just let some person’s life get ruined because I have a curfew.”

“I’m sure churro lady can find some other person to ask directions from, Pete.”

He feels anger brush up, only somewhat tempered by the fact that he can’t get over the fact that he’s angry at Tony Stark. The novelty of things related to him hasn’t fully worn off.

“Right. The next time I’m stopping someone from being stabbed, I’m just going to have to call a timeout, leave, and let them continue. After all, I need to get in my jam jams.”

He’s spinning the screw driver again, this time looking up at him. “Sorry. You’re right, I’m being an ass.”

Peter’s so shocked he misses the stool he’s swinging his leg onto, his foot clumping back onto the floor.

Tony rolls his eyes. “But so are you, kid.”

Iron-man is calling him an ass. It feels surprisingly bad. “I am not.”

“No? Your Aunt, one of the more frightening people I’ve ever met, was near tears this morning when she called me. If that’s not assish, I don’t know what is.”

Peter sits down more successfully this time, looking at the mess of wires with a frown.

“What’s going on with you, Peter? I thought you were doing better. You wanted to stay on the ground, right? I thought that meant committing to high school, to all that teenager stuff.”

“I am. I go everyday, my grades are up-”

“Are you getting any sleep?”

“That’s a little rich.”

“Yes. And I can afford to be a little rich, as I am a lot rich, so the question still stands. Are you?”

“I’m getting plenty.”

“Funny, because looking at your AI, you’ve been staying out till nearly two in the morning every night. If I remember your first class is at 7:30, which means waking up at 6:30. So what? That leaves like four hours of sleep a night?”

Peter sighs. “You're the math wiz.”

Mr. Stark’s jaw clenches. “So are you. So I think you can put two and two together.”

“I’m going to school everyday, and yeah, some of my grades need a little polish, but I’ll pull them up by the end of the semester.”

“Hmm. Don’t buy it.” Tony stands straight, walks over to Peter’s bag, and pulls out the suit. It always looks so ridiculous without him in it, like large, wrinkled, deflated red and blue basketball.

Peter stands too, swallowing. He can’t be thinking of taking it again. He’s really started depending on Karen optimizing his watchlist.

“I’m going to program the suit to take you home, meaning either here or your Aunt’s house, before eleven.”

Peter grits his teeth. “But. I mean, how? And what about the weekends? I don’t have a curfew for the weekends.”

Tony’s considering the suit in front of him. “It will be a fun surprise, how about that? Or you can just keep your word like a grown up.”

“Oh yeah, grown ups always keep their word.”

Tony flops the suit onto the work table. “Careful there, you’ll cut yourself on all the edge lording if you don’t watch it.”

He decides not to grace that with a response.

“Now that that conversation’s done, wanna help with this? I'm working on an AI coat.”

He lets out a little incredulous giggle, in spite himself. “What?”

Tony’s grinning at him. “It’s not as stupid as it sounds. Come over here.”

Before he heads off to school the next morning, Tony hands him the suit with a truly ominous wink.

Later, he strolls casually down the hallway, feeling very put together, lunch in his bag, not having to run or swing there. Just hoping out of the car as it glided to a stop in front of his school.

He slides into his seat, his hand moving towards his backpack. Then he stops.

Crap.

The test’s today.

“Okay, class, clear your desks, take out a pencil. Time to write about fairies and whatnot.”

He meant to look over the answers MJ gave him before.

That AI coat Mr. Stark was making was really cool though.

Crap.

Wait, who’s Took again?

MJ and Ned arrive at lunch at the same time. Peter’s slumped against the table.

“Forgot your lunch again?”

He wordlessly pulls out a brown sack.

“Then what’s up?”

“I’m going to get a C in lit. At best. I failed that test.”

MJ stiffens. “How? I literally gave you all the answers?”

He pulls his head up, eyebrows furrowed at her serious tone, which is remarkably different than the standard deadpan one.

“I-I just completely blanked.”

“Did you even study it?”

Why is he so bad at lying? He just stares at her in silence.

“Whatever.” She stares down at her book for the rest of lunch.

Peter glances at Ned, but he just shrugs back.

The light in the living room is diffused when he gets home around four. It seems to land on nothing but the air, dust particles swirling as he sits on the couch. May should be home around seven, when he leaves. He needs to ask her how her night out was last night.

He needs to get his shit together. He needs to put together a game plan.

He pulls out a piece of paper from the pile in his backpack, the corner tearing as he gives it a yank. Digging, he finds a pencil with the eraser missing.

1\. Be a better student. Get your grades up (talk to Ms. Davis about possible make up work).  
2\. Be a better SM. Continue to try to optimize your time during patrols. You have thirteen hot spots you’ve noticed so far. It’s important to rotate those out and also look out for potential new ones.  
3\. Be a better friend to MJ and Ned. Text more, listen to interests.  
4\. Be a better nephew. Your aunt doesn’t deserve this. The rules aren’t wrong.  
5\. Be a better mentee. Try to spend some time practicing training exercises Mr. Stark and Rhodey give you.  
6\. Try to get to sleep by at least one.  
7\. Leave for school on time.  
8\. Don’t forget your chores; taking out the trash, washing the dishes, and vacuuming every other week.  
9\. Take time to go through flash cards for Acedec at least once a week.

The paper folds satisfyingly, the edge sharp. He leaves it on his desk, in the center. He cleans out his backpack, puts everything in folders. He makes a homework to do list; handouts for Calc, conjugations for Spanish, any potential extra-credit for Lit, the research topic for history for the class presentation (he almost forgot that completely), the hypothetical chemistry lab hand out, and nothing for gym or shop.

He takes a deep breath. Then another. He can do this. There’s no reason he can’t do this.

The darkness of the night has settled, complete, all the streetlights fighting a losing battle in the backs of buildings. A crow bar to his back takes him by surprise. He thought that the spider sense was picking up on that guy pulling a knife from his pocket as he talks with the other guy, who’s already webbed to the wall. But no.

He’s ribs scream a little, but he pivots, gripping the bar and flinging it so far the clatter of it hitting the ground is a small sound. He grabs the other man’s wrist as it swings wide in front of him, the knife falling to the floor. He webs both knife-man and the crow bar person as they trying to run away.

For a second, there’s only heavy breathing in the alley way. That same tugging, that same expression.

“Where’d you come from?” He asks the crow bar person, their leg webbed down at a strange angle, so that they have to turn their waist to look at Peter. They weren’t with the two guys webbed behind him before, as they were robbing some poor guy who’s long since ran off.

Crow bar’s eyes aren’t quite right. The slight giggle they gives doesn’t make his spider senses go off, but it does make some of his human ones shiver.

“We get points if we can get a hit of any kind on you. They’d prefer a gun, but I don’t got one. So. Hehe. Had to make do with the opportunity, ya know?”

“They? Someone wants to give out, what, points? For literally hitting me?”

“Yeah. You’re a real pain in the ass, you know? It’s good cred to get a hurt on you.” They licks their lips, sinking down to the alley floor, they’re already focusing on something else in their own mind, by the way they're grinning.

He turns to the two original guys. “Is that person making that up?”

They just stare at him; ones face a mask, the other with a small grin.

That doesn’t bode well.

His ribs are hurting a lot less by the time he’s swinging towards the third hot spot he wanted to check out tonight.

“Peter. It’s time to go home.” The visuals on his screen flash the time, ten thirty. This must be what Mr. Stark added.

Honestly, he expected something more obnoxious.

“C’mon. I still have half an hour left.”

“You are currently twenty minutes away from home and are heading further from it. The recommended course of action is to return home.”

He lands on top of a brownstone, considering.

There’s been a couple of pretty slashed up bodies showing up a few blocks away. There are rumors floating around of a serial killer. He just wants to check the area out really fast, just make sure that no ones, like, chopping up a body or anything.

“I will in just a little bit, Karen.”

“Now, Peter.”

He’s swinging away. Great. Mr. Stark made his AI sound like a pissed off mom.

He swings a few blocks more, maybe a minute of time has lapsed. Then, the time flashes, bright and red. Karen’s is voice louder. “Time to go home, Peter.”

He takes it back, this is very obnoxious.

He swings another minute. The numbers are bigger, neon red, they leave an afterimage when he blinks. “Time to go home, Peter.”

“Karen, stop.”

“I cannot stop until you’re heading home.”

He lands on an ugly brick building. A distance away, he hears a scream, almost like a movie, high and strong, then nothing. He’s heart pounding, he bounds across the roof, swings in the general direction he heard it.

The time starts flashing, brighter and brighter, He can’t keep his eyes open. “Go Home, Peter. GO home, Peter. Go HOME, Peter. GO HOME, PETER.

He rips the mask from his face, pissed. He stares down at it, then looks out across the dark tops of buildings. He can’t go fight anyone without the mask.

Worry builds in his stomach. He hasn’t heard anything else, no other scream, no drunken laughter. Nothing. He jumps from roof to roof, in the general direction of his home. He puts the mask back on. It’s silent as he goes back. There is dread, a slug, slimy and wiggling just slightly, in his stomach.

* * *

The next morning he rolls over, unplugs his phone from the wall and scrolls, ignoring the pressing on his bladder for as long as he can. A news alert covers the title of the subreddit post he was looking at. “Another person murdered in a similar style to two others. Police confirm they suspect the work of a serial killer.”

He sits up, opens the article.

The time, the place. It matches.

He drags his hands through his hair. He had been right there. He was right there.

Stepping out into the hallway, he glances into the living room, May eating a banana on the couch, reading a paperback. He goes to the bathroom, looks in the mirror as he washes his hands. He doesn’t feel right.

Be a better nephew.

He comes out, sits on the couch, doesn’t look up so he doesn’t have to try to match the smile May’s giving him.

Be a better nephew, the rules are fair.

“How'd that test in Lit go?”

“Why eleven?” Don’t do this, be a better nephew.

“What? You mean your curfew? She unfolds her legs, sits up straighter. She grins a little sadly to herself. “I never really planned on giving you one, you know, before I learned about Spider-man. I always figured, hey, he’ll let me know where he is, no reason to put a time to it. But the nature of what you’re doing, mixed with the fact that you don’t actually tell me where you are-”

“Spider-man’s not a joke.” Stop. Be a better neph- “Eleven doesn’t work. Crime doesn’t stop at eleven.”

All grins, sad or not, are gone now. She’s staring at him, her wide brown eyes serious in a way that makes him think of Ben, of funerals, of therapy, of finding him crying in the bathroom for the fifth night in a row. “Crime never stops at all. Crime is everywhere, all the time Peter. You’re fifteen. You’re in the tenth grade -”

“Did you know I stopped a guy from cutting off a woman’s nipple the other day?”

May pales, sways a little. Her hands that were linked loosely together in front of her are now clenched.

“He was in a stairwell that goes down into an abandoned underground garage. She was completely out of it, she looked homeless, on drugs, who knows. He looked like a normal dude, polo shirt, khakis. He was sweating so much. There’s no point in webbing those guys up and calling the police, they won’t be in there for even an hour. So I webbed him enough that he’d be there for the night, at least, and took her towards a shelter. She thanked me, but didn’t go in. She just wandered down a different street.”

May’s jaw clenches. “You’re fifteen. You shouldn’t be-”

“I’m not telling you this so that you get more freaked out, I’m telling you this-”

“Oh, I’m more freaked out, you shouldn’t be seeing-”

“Because I want you to understand that if I see that woman and man in a stairwell, I can’t just leave them there because it’s eleven at night-”

“You have to.”

“No, I don’t, you’re just making me.”

May stands, rocks on her heels. “You matter, Peter. The fifteen year old boy with calc homework and friends who make lego sets with him. The boy who has his whole life in front of him, who has to think of his future too, not just everybody else's. You count. There are so many people out there who need help, and my sweet-hearted boy, I know you want to help them, but you can’t help them all. But you can help yourself-”

“What Spider-man does is more important than-”

May clenches her fists, tilts her head back, and screams. Harsh and long and loud. Peter’s never even heard her raise her voice before. He can only stare at her as she tilts her face back down, her eyes brightened by unshed tears.

“No. You have your priorities backwards. You come first, Spider-man comes second. Fuck, Spider-man comes third or forth-”

“That’s the thing, May, that you can’t seem to get.” His voice is quiet, barely over a whisper. “I am Spider-man.”

Her fingers uncurl. Something in posture changes, her spin curves, her hip pops out a little. One foot is on it’s side. She blinks slowly, once, then twice, before shaking her head.

She looks defeated.

Turning on her heel, she takes three long strides to her bedroom door and slams it closed behind her.

He spends most of the weekend with Ned, making sets, eating pizza, avoiding his mom. He enjoys the way he can slip out in the middle of the night and Ned thinks it's cool instead of thinking that he’s killing himself.

Monday rolls around like a gray cloud in the distance finally reaching the sun.

“I don’t give any make up assignments, Peter.”

“But, look, I really want to-”

“Then you should have the first time.”

She’s staring up at him, arms crossed over her chest. She looks livelier today, but not any happier.

“If you Ace the next two tests and turn in all your homework on time, it’s still possible to raise your grade to a B. But you’re really going to have to turn this ship around. We are starting on a Tale of Two Cities, Dickens isn’t everyone's favorite, but it’s usually more digestible for more people. Start fresh.”

History is before lunch.

“Where’s the proposal Peter?” Ms. Cliff stops by his desk.

He just shakes his head. He doesn’t have it in him to feel guilty.

She makes a quiet scoffing sound. “Get it to me by tomorrow.”

He nods. May’s not coming home until around eight tonight anyway.

MJ’s there, after class, right outside. “Ned told me to tell you that he has a thing for robotics club.”

He nods and they fall instep with each other. Even from a distance the cafeteria sounds extra loud today. He can feel a headache forming.

Cool, long fingers cup his. His head snaps to the side, surprised, but MJ is already turned away, already pulling him along a different direction.

They sit cross legged under the bleachers, the gaps between steps creating dark and white stripes all around them. They eat in silence. He can feel his headache slipping away.

They finish eating, stuffing wrappers and rinds into paper bags, crunching those into balls. There’s still ten minutes left.

“What’s wrong?” She asks it lightly, disinterested. She doesn’t expect him to answer.

“May and I had a fight.”

She stops tossing her lunch trash ball from hand to hand. “Oh.”

Peter shrugs.

She leans against the wall, putting her legs out in front of her.

Even feeling down, he can’t help but notice how long they are.

“I never fight with my parents.”

He leans back too. “That must be nice.”

“Not really. I guess they’d have to speak to me to have a fight with me.”

His head snaps to the side to look at her properly. “They don’t talk to you?”

It’s her turn to shrug. “They’re busy.”

He feels indignant, wants to get angry about it, but there’s something about her face that makes it hard, makes it seem like that would be the wrong thing to do.

She grins at him, a small soft thing. “Don’t look so worried. They’re both doctors. They, like, pay the bills, always make sure to feed me. It’s fine.”

Somehow, he doesn’t think so.

* * *

That night, after he puts together a proposal for history, he sees one man pushing another against the wall, pulling out a gun and putting it against his head.

He moves towards them, but pauses. Something’s odd about it. They are around the same height and build. They are under a street lamp. These things are not typical.

But the man with the gun is yelling now. He’s pushing and pushing the gun against the guy’s head, who’s staring straight ahead. He almost looks bored.

Something’s not tracking. But then the man steps back, takes aim.

Peter swings down, kicks out, just a little, the gun flings into the opposite wall, goes off, the bullet bouncing off the ground further down.

The man screams, grunts, clutching his arm to him. Damn, he must have broken it.

Senses spike, he flips up without thought, a gun goes off, his leg burns.

He lands, puts both arms out, webs the other guy’s arm, now holding a gun, to the wall. He webs the broken arm guy’s feet to the ground.

Blood’s sliding down his leg. He flexes his muscles in his thigh. It hurts, but not too much. It’s just a graze.

He looks at the guy with the arm pinned to the wall. “What the hell, man?”

Weirdly, they both start laughing. He takes a few steps back, keeps them both within view.

“We knew you were good. Different seeing it up close though.”

Wall guy is grinning now at the broken arm guy, who grimaces, swaying, panting. “Yeah, so awesome how he barely kicked my arm and it still snapped, you asshole.”

“Ah, don’t be salty-”

“What. the. hell?”

Broken arm guy sits down in a crouch, groaning now. Wall guy smirks. “You could say there’s a pool now, a betting ring of sorts, on who can get a good hit on you. Anything counts. But you’ve pissed off enough people that they’re hoping to hit you dead.”

Right. Crazy eyes mentioned this the other day.

“Awesome.” Peter moves forward quickly towards the wall guy. His smirk slides off the closer he gets. He jerks the gun out from his webbed up grip. He then jogs over to the other gun.

He moves back to where he was, standing between them so that they both can see. “This mysterious betting pool. Tell them this.”

Both of them are looking at him now, no humor at all. Peter squeezes the barrel of the guns in each hand, squeezes until his hands ache, but he feels the satisfaction of them giving.

He let’s them fall from his grip, bent and twisted at his feet.

They’re silent as he swings away.

  
He’s on the roof some distance away, trying not to think about it all too hard.

The wound on his leg is starting to close up a little, but it’s still bleeding pretty bad, still sliding down his leg, starting to pool around his foot.

Mr. Stark offered him a bullet proof suit, but it was just too stiff, slowing him down. Besides, why would he need a bulletproof suit if he can flip out of the way?

He’s not Iron-man. He doesn’t want to clunk down the street.

The time flashes in front of him, it’s five minutes past eleven. “Time to go home, Peter.”

He sighs, contemplating, then swinging towards the tower. He’s going to have to fix his suit anyway.

Plus, Mays’ not there.

“I thought that you were supposed to start bugging me in time to get home by eleven?”

“I am programmed not to interrupt you in times of engagement with criminals, police, or victims.”

“Oh.” That’s kind of thoughtful, at least.

He lands on the balcony of the penthouse, a light shimmering around him as usual, freezing him in place until the scan is complete, and then it releases him.

Tony’s already opening the door as he moves toward it.

They stare at each other for a second before he tics his head to the side, telling him to come in.

The living room is bright, almost surreal looking after the sweating and the darkness and the mild pain coming here.

“So. I hear you’re not a big fan of the update. I expected you to come here at some point. So let’s hash it out, the two of us. But to be very clear. I’m on your aunt’s side. Like one hundred percent. Or maybe, like ninety five, just on principle I suppose.”

Peter sighs, his shoulders curving in on themselves. God he’s tired.

They used to agree on nothing. Like a newly divorced couple, angry for angers sake, especially Aunt May.

She would spin on her heel sometimes, just randomly, while they’re cleaning the apartment, or while they are walking to the laundry room on their floor, or while she was burning the crap out of one meal or another, waving a dish towel through the air, and put her hands on her hips. “I can’t believe that man. I can’t believe he took you out of the country to fight other superheroes.” She’d huff, glare at him as he shrugs, then go back to whatever it was she was doing.

After that faded, it was replaced by other things. “Do you know that man had the nerve, the nerve, to laugh at me asking to see some of the baby monitor camera footage? Said that it wouldn’t help me at all-”

“I mean, to be fair, it wouldn’t-”

She poked him in the chest. “Oh, I don’t need to hear it from you that you agree with him. I know already.”

Mr. Stark wasn’t really all that much better. “You should have heard her, kid, it was terrible. Why on earth would you tell her that you turned down a position with the Avengers? That I offered you one? Just let it be water under the bridge, okay? Never tell her anything.” He paused, his hands tapping against his leg. “No. That doesn’t sound right either.”

Somewhere along the line all that yelling turned to laughing and commiserating about him together and now here he is. Being team parented.

“Mr. Stark, I-”

He put his hand up, Peter falls silent.

“This isn’t going to be rich coming from me, because I’ve actually learned this lesson before. You’re heading towards burn out. You’re careening past right past-”

“Mr. Stark-.”

“Just wait, I have a whole speech, it’s good-”

Peter rolls his eyes and lifts up his foot. Enough blood has pooled that it’s starting to seep through his suit, leaving behind a stark red footprint on the polished cement of the floor.

Tony’s eyes glance down, widen. “What the hell? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Peter scoffs, pulls off his mask. “Seriously?”

He’s coming closer now, bends, finds the wound, matted and dark red and hard to see the details of, mixed with the darker fabric of blue on his leg. He looks up at him, eyebrows raised.

“I was grazed, not a big-”

“That’s it. You're switching to the other suit, I don’t care-”

“Can we just deal with this first?”

Mr. Stark considers him, scoffs, swings Peter’s arm around his shoulders and helps him walk, even though he doesn’t really need it. It’s still kind of nice.

They’re in the med-bay, his suit is off, crumpled in a plastic bag in the corner. Tony has already told Friday to tell Aunt May that he’s here.

The wound is clean now, closed enough not to need stitches. Peter’s taping a bandage over what’s left. He won’t even need that after sleeping.

Tony pulls off reddened gloves, throws out crimson gauze into a hazardous material bag.

Peter grins, enjoying the feeling of not having his leg covered in blood.

He considers the suit. “It’s very useful that you’ve made that suit machine washable.”

“Shame that the next one can’t be, but-”

“What do you-”

Mr. Stark is picking up the bag, moving towards the hazard trash. Peter stands, gets over to him in two steps. “What are you doing?”

He looks confused. “You’re changing to the other suit-”

“No I’m not, the other suit’s too-”

“I don’t care if it’s a little clunkier-”

“I care. You can’t-”

“I can though. This suits not good enough anymore -

“I like that suit.”

“Can you not be stubborn for five seconds? For once, Peter?”

He stares down at the floor, at his leg, clean, bright white bandage covering everything gross.

“I won’t use the other suit.”

Tony slaps the bag down onto the floor and starts pacing. “I had to talk your aunt down from taking the suit permanently until you get your head straight. I told her I’d give you more upgrades. Now I’m not sure if I shouldn’t-”

“I’m not the suit. You taught me that.”

Tony’s staring at him, his arms crossed over his chest. “I learned that the hard way too. Which is why I’m not going to take it, why I’m not going to force you to wear the other one.”

Peter’s shoulders sag in relief.

“But you can’t come back here until you get your head on straight.”

“What?” He feels like he’s been slapped.

Tony looks sad, disappointed. “I’m not angry with you, I don’t plan to start ignoring you or something. But you have to sleep in the mess you’ve made, kid. You have to fix this with your aunt, you have to get this straight with yourself. You can’t hide here.”

They stare at each other. Peter feels like his insides are on fire.

“It’s nearly midnight and you have to get up extra early to get your stuff for school tomorrow. Get some sleep, start fresh in the morning.”

“Oh. You aren’t kicking me out right now?” He shimmies into the sweatpants that Mr. Stark gave him.

“Don’t do that-”

But Peter’s already out the door, feeling more like a teenager than he has in awhile.

He lays awake for hours, leaves out the window of the room he’s staying in at six in the morning after a strange little drone brings back his newly cleaned and stitched suit.

MJ takes one look at him outside of history class and holds out her hand so that her palm lays flat against his chest. Her arms fully extended, her other hand tapping out a text rapidly on her phone.

“Uh.”

She gives his chest a little shove, which he forgets to sway against at all, but he gets the message, waiting as she finishes what she’s writing, glances over it once more before sending off and tucking it into the deep pockets of her wide, too short black pants.

“Let’s go.”

She moves around him, going the opposite way of the cafeteria, also going the wrong direction for the bleachers, too.

“Where- What about-”

“Ned has his robot thing today, he said that you’d forget. And we’re going home.”

“Home? But I- I have two classes left and I don’t really want to go home.”

May would be there. She has a late shift tonight, meaning she’s probably putzing around the house, watching some sort of daytime soap opera that she pretends not to be completely invested in. He misses her.

“Not your home, mine.”

They exit the main doors of the building, their steps slapping against the wide cement steps. “Oh. Okay. But what about-”

“You only have gym and shop left. Hardly life changing if you miss it.”

He stares at her as she walks a half pace ahead of him, like she’s a little embarrassed to be seen with him.

He jogs a couple of steps, falls inline with her.

“Do you ever wonder why I go to a STEM focused technical high school when I’m clearly more interested in art and literature?”

They’re walking a direction he’s never walked through before, though he’s swung through a couple of times. He knows if they go a couple of more blocks they’ll be in a well off neighborhood, the tall stately brick houses still single homes, not yet broken up into ever smaller apartments yet.

“I-I”

“You haven’t at all, huh?”

He stares at her disinterested face. She seems so unbothered.

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be. I know that I’m not really inviting. Like, I don’t want to talk to people, so it makes sense that they don’t want to talk to me, you know? Same with things like this. I don’t ever complain about it, so why would you think about it?”

“Because you’re my friend. And I should. And now that you’ve brought it up, I really do want to know.”

The smile she gives him is sweet, shows how her two front teeth are a little bucked. Cute.

They turn the corner, walk up the street, tall green trees swaying in the breeze. No one’s around at all. “It’s because my parents wanted me to. They didn’t even ask me about it. We even moved to this neighborhood beforehand, before I even got in, that’s how much that plan was set in stone in their minds. They want me to be a doctor.”

They climb the steps of an intimidating house, trimmed in white, the shudders sharp lines of dark blue. MJ pushes in a key code, steps in, puts in a security code into the system on the wall.

He can’t help but look around as they rapidly climb the steep wooden steps up two flights of stairs.

It looks like something from a magazine. Light coming through soft curtains, laying across dark woods and fine fabrics. Everything feels sort of delicate. He finds himself balancing carefully, like he does as Spider-man, trying to make no noise.

“It’s all pretty typical I guess. I’ll probably have to scream at them at some point before college, ‘No, mom, that’s your dream!’ or whatever."

They enter a small room, made smaller feeling by every inch of the wall being covered in art. Some of it is clearly hers, some of it is posters of famous work. There are doodles in between, splashes of paint messing every line.

There’s a set of drawers, the top of which is covered in markers, pens, pads, oils. Along one wall are bookshelves, stuffed and bending in the middle. There is a small desk tucked between two, her laptop closed on top, a stack of books next to that. Her bed takes up most of the floor space, the head of it against a tall window. There’s piles of pillows and blankets, clothes flung here and there on it.

It looks very comfortable.

She takes his arm, pulls him towards the bed, puts her hands on his shoulders, spins him so he’s sitting.

She steps closer, so his knees are touching her thighs. He can feel himself blushing, even though his mind’s blank, even though he feels like a website loading on a bad connection.

“Wha-”

She leans forward, and he watches, licks his lips.

“Go to sleep.”

She moves back suddenly, taking his backpack and placing it next to hers by the desk.

She leans against her it, her eyebrows raised, crosses her arms over her chest.

“Wh-I, sleep?” He’s not sure he’s ever felt this stupid, and once he let a man trick him into collapsing a building onto himself.

“Yes. Sleep. You look like a sad puppy zombie. I can’t see it for another day.”

“I can’t, just, fall asleep at your house, it’s-”

She moves forward, fast, somehow intimidating.

_I’m a superhero,_ he thinks to himself as he stares up at her in amazement. I _was shot yesterday, criminals have a betting pool-_

“I wasn’t really asking, Peter.”

She’s staring down at him, squinting just a little. He gulps, nods, leans forward to take off his shoes, his hair brushing her stomach as he bends down.

He hopes the converses don’t smell. He takes off his sweater, too, just leaving the button down. He sits back, and, feeling very strange, lays down, slowly, carefully, like he’s getting into a hammock.

MJ continues to stare at him as he tries to relax back into the pile of pillows. Her face softens as she takes a light throw blanket and spreads it on top of him.

It all kind of smells like her, like some sort of flowery shampoo and laundry detergent. He’s pretty sure his bed smells like sweat and the general funk of teenager.

He curls up on his side. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to sleep, he can sense MJ somewhere in the room, it’s too-

When he wakes up, it’s night time. MJ is typing away on her small desk, squinting into her screen, scoffs, types something more out.

He groans, feels too hot, feels like he’s awaking from some primordial confusion, his lizard brain the only thing still fully working, everything else feels like it’s flickering on.

MJ turns to look at him, her grin small. So cute.

“What time is it?”

She glances at her screen. “Eight.”

He groans again, sits up straight, rubbing his face with his hands. His breath smells like ass.

“I gotta go.”

She nods, still grinning at him a little. He slides out of her insanely comfortable bed, feeling his neck turn red as he struggles to get his shoes on and tie them quickly.

He doesn’t bother putting his sweatshirt on, just stuffs it into his backpack, which he slings onto his back. They’re silent as they walk down the steep and narrow stairs. Peter’s half afraid of a parent popping out of somewhere, but the house feels empty, a little creepy, even, all that dark furniture looming in the night. Some part of him feels sad to leave her here.

He steps out into the brisk night, feeling better than he has in a while.

“MJ, thank you. I didn't even know how much I needed that. Seriously. You’re the best.”

She gives him that grin again, takes a step out onto the stoop. “Glad to lend my bed.” She frowns, crosses her arms over her stomach. “That sounded wrong- I just meant-”

He steps forward, puts a hand on her shoulder. He means to go in for a hug, but somehow he tilts his head, pushes his lips up onto hers.

He freezes, then steps back. He feels the beginnings of panic, but MJ just blinks, once, twice, then puts her arm out, holds him there, leans forward, and kisses back.

This one’s nicer. He steps in closer the same time she does, their feet in between each other’s. He slides his arm across her back, her hands lightly circle the back of his neck.

Later, as he swings away from that neighborhood, he can’t seem to stop smiling. Even when he has his mask on, he keeps finding himself grinning. So much so that he’s cheeks hurt a little.

He’s still grinning even as he lands quietly on a roof, watching as a man in a hood jimmies open a car door down below. The car alarm goes off as Peter starts carefully sliding down the side of the building. It stops honking as the man gets the car started.

Peter ducks and runs around the edge of the car, pulling open the door before the man can even get it into reverse.

The man squawks, swears as Peter plucks him out of the car and holds him up by bunching the back of his hoodie.

He’s seen this guy around before. “Damn it, Chris.”

“Fuck you, Spider-man.” Chris kicks out, connecting with Peter’s shin, but it doesn’t do anything at all.

Chris’s face is starting to look a little red and swollen looking, so he puts him lightly on the ground, keeping a hand on his arm instead.

“C’mon man. I thought you were going to turn it around that time I saw you at the work center-”

He groans, looks up at the sky. “Now I gotta hear this from freaking Spider-man too. Fuck.”

“What happ-”

“You know what, you can shove that well meaning sad sounding voice right up your butt. You clearly don’t get it. I can’t do shit. Those jobs they give me are trash. The way they treat me is trash cuz they know I ain’t got no where else to go with a felony on my sheet. I can’t vote, I can’t look somewhere else. I’m stuck. If I’m fucked anyway, might as well make some money first, right? Or I guess not, as Mr. Goodie-two-shoes here has step on me-”

“I can’t let you steal people’s cars. That’s not the right answer, here.”

He laughs, tries to jerk his arm away but it doesn’t move. “Then what is the answer, huh, Mr. Superhero? What’s the answer then? Are you going to feed my two kids? Are you going to get me a job that doesn’t destroy my knees and back? No, right. Instead you’re going to roll up here, all self righteous and act like you know shit.”

Peter feels pretty out of his depth, to be honest. None of this feels right.

“I don’t know man. But you can’t steal people’s cars. It’s not their fault things are like this. It also won’t help you in the long run. You’ll just go back to prison.”

Chris puts a hand over his mouth, his lips twitching. “I’m going back one way or another, dude. Might as well make some money first. And what the hell man. What’s the point of you, at the end of the day? Who are you really helping? Only those rich fucks who don’t need help in the first place. Only them. Everyone else hates you around here. They have a pool going or some shit.”

Peter lets go of his arm. Watches as Chris stares at him for a second, some strange look on his face, and then he bolts, running up the street.

He closes the car door with a click. A full block a way Chris turns, his yell uncertain. “Hey man, just, watch your ass, okay? They ain’t joking.”

Peter just nods and Chris turns to leave, running out of sight.

“Time to go home, Peter.” The time flashes. It’s ten past eleven.

He slides into his room, changes into his PJs. He can hear Aunt May’s steps get closer, can hear her breathing, her pause as she holds her breath by his door. He stills, wonders if she’s going to knock.

She doesn’t. Instead her steps fade away, head back towards her room.

* * *

“What’s the point of you?” The question seems to follow him, speaks to him as he half asses the chemistry hypothetical during lunch, seems to sit across his shoulders as that ever present feeling of wondering if he’s actually doing anything, actually making a change for anyone gnaws on his stomach. He sits with it as he thinks about that list he made, the one that used to be on his desk but that’s now crumpled and tossed into the trash.

What is he doing? What is the point of him?

He can’t seem to stop thinking of it, keeps pressing on it like a new bruise.

He can only half return MJ’s happy smile as he slides into the library for AceDec.

Her response, her smile folding away on itself, disappearing easily into her standard disinterest expression, hurts like a bruise, too.

He’s doing this to himself. All of this is him, he knows that now.

Ned keeps sending him questioning looks during practice, but he just grins, shrugs back until he stops. This practice feels like it’s taking several lifetimes.

“Hey man, my robotics club won-”

But he’s already up, already leaving the library, ignoring the flash of hurt that he sees on Ned’s face.

He’s out in the hallway. He hears rapid footsteps behind him, turns to see MJ standing there, frustrated.

“What’s going on with you, Peter?”

He clenches his backpack strap. “Nothing. I have to-”

“Don’t lie to me, dude. You don’t have to tell me, but don’t lie.”

He stares at her, stuck. He turns on his heel and runs, ignoring her yelling for him.

He steps into the apartment, not sure what to do, where to go.

You’ve made this mess, now sleep in it.

He squares his shoulders, moves into the living room.

Mr. Stark is there. May’s crying. They both turn to look at him. It’s so strangely reminiscent of the first time he met Mr. Stark, he pauses too, despite this urge to run.

Come on, no more running.

“What’s going on with you, Peter?” May’s standing. Mr. Stark looks uncomfortable, glancing between them.

He feels his jaw clench. “It’s my fault.”

“What is?”

His breathing is wrong. His throat burns. “It’s my fault Uncle Ben died.”

“What?” May gasps, blinking, confused.

Mr. Stark looks lost, stares at him.

“I was standing right there. I had my powers. I had them. I was standing right there. I just froze, just stood there like a complete fucking idiot. I just watched as he was shot. I knew he was going to get shot. My senses were going haywire. He had come to help me, found where I was, asked about what was going on with me. I told him about my powers. He said I should use them to help people. But I just stared. I just stared as he was shot, I could have done something. I take guns off people all the time. Easily. I move faster than bullets. I could have stepped between them. It would have hurt, but I would have lived. And so would have Ben.” He can’t breath. He’s not crying, he just can’t breath. He crouches, gasping, gasping but not getting anything.

Both of them are standing now, both are moving around the couch, coming towards him. He steps back, he takes another step back, still hunched over. “I’m so sorry, Mr. S-Stark. I lied to you. When you a-asked why I do this. I do want to help people. But I’m not looking out for the little guy. I’m just so s-sorry, all the time. I’m so sorry.” He sobs. It tears out of his throat like a rope of fire.

He looks up at them, takes more steps back as they step closer. Tony’s shaking his head, blinking. May looks...she looks happy? He can’t figure it out. He sobs again, straightens, takes more steps back, hits the door, reaches for the handle.

“Baby. Peter. No. You got it all wrong.”

He grits his teeth, swallows against the pain in his throat. “Please. May. I’m so sorry, I just stood there. I didn’t save your husband.”

“Peter. Honey-”

He ends running, running down the hallway. All those flights of stairs. He still doesn’t know where to go. He promised himself he won’t run anymore, sleep in the mess he made. But it turns out his word doesn’t mean much lately.

He can fix one thing though. He can do this much at least.

He puts on his suit.

Night is falling now. He sticks to the shadows as he climbs the side of MJ’s house.

He knocks on her window. She starts, turns on her heel and stares out of the glass, at his masked face staring back, like she’s the main character in a horror movie.

Peter waves then waits. MJ steps closer. Then closer again, muttering soundless words to herself as she reaches the window.

She flips the latch, leaning around the curled metal headboard of her bed, and pushes the window up. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Spider-man? Um. What are-”

Peter slides the rest of the way into her room, slides the window shut behind him, latches the window, closes the curtains.

He turns and she’s staring at him, her face a mix of fascination and fear and weirdly, impatience. He slides the mask off of his face, watching her carefully.

She nods. Then nods again. Looks kind of victorious, then looks a little woozy. She sits on the edge of her bed.

“MJ, I know this kind of a shock-”

“It’s not. It’s really not. I mean. You and Ned suck at lying. You were in D.C. It-It was kind of obvious. But also, just, so crazy. This is crazy. You’re Spider-man.”

He sits next to her, staring at her profile. “I’m sorry. For keeping this a secret. I just, I don’t want a lot of people to know. It’s dangerous. But I really like you. I don’t like lying to you. So-”

She kisses him. Swiftly, short, sweet, He blinks at her in the dim light of her room.

“Tell me everything.”

He nods, thinking of where to start.

“Wait. Let’s lie down.” MJ turns, walks over to the lamp in the corner, flicks it off. She slides under her comforter while he’s still standing there in his suit. “Um. I didn’t- I don’t wear anything but boxer’s under here. So. Maybe I’ll stick to the floor.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Whatever. Just wear boxers. Come here.”

He swallows, but doesn’t really want to argue with a girl lying in a bed telling him to hurry up and get in his boxers and come on in. 

He presses the Spider on his chest. Watches with more confidence than he thought he had as MJ’s eyes slide up and down his body. She looks uncertain, flushed.

“Alright Adonis, stop showing off. Get in here. Tell me what’s up. With your life.”

He grins. Slides in next to her. She’s so warm where they’re pressed next to each other, their arms, the outside of their thighs.

He tells her. He tells her about the bite, about failing Ben, about wanting to ease his guilt, about Mr. Stark. Germany. Vulture. His struggles with his work life balance. All of it.

She listens carefully, curled on her side, her eyes glittering in the dark, barely blinking as he talks.

He rambles to a stop, feeling tired. Worn down, like a rug people have been stepping on for years.

MJ takes a breath, then another. “I'm not trying to change the subject. I promise this is related. I don’t hate my parents. This was a very sad realization. Because I don’t love them either. So realizing that I don’t hate them means that I don’t care about them at all, not really. They don’t care about me either. Not even a little. If I tell them that that’s your dream, not mine, they’ll just tell me, here’s the deal. Go to Med school, or live on your own. Pay your own way going forward. They’ll mean it. It’s all just a transaction to them. Do as I say or the money’s cut off. And I want to be all rebellious, strike it out on my own. But I’m scared. I’m really scared. They won’t let me get a job. I can’t save up money. I don’t want to be homeless. I want to go to college. I don’t want to go pre-med. I don’t want to have no one to put down as my emergency contact. But they aren’t really anyway. They wouldn’t come if I was in the hospital.”

Peter frowns at her, half formed thoughts entering his brain; _I’ll be your emergency contact, I’ll help you through college. You won’t need them, I know tons of people. Let’s just get married, problem solved-_

“And I’m not telling you this because I’m looking for - for pity or answers or something. I’ll figure it out. I’m telling you because I’ve never told anyone before. I’m not really good at getting close to people. But. I want to try. So. You know. Now we know about each other. And I won’t be able to help you with any of that, I guess, not really. That’s all so intense, Peter, I had no idea what you were dealing with. But now I do. So at least you won’t feel alone. You can tell me. We’ll tell each other. And that can be enough-”

He leans forward, kisses her. It feels different than before. The other kisses were sparks, energy in him like dancing a little jig.

This feels like taking a long drink of cool water, like he’s been coughing and wheezing for hours, days, and this is relief.

Their kiss deepens and he rolls, just a little, his torso leaning over her, her hands grabbing at his shoulders. He slides his hand to her hip as she breaks their kiss, moves over to his ear, down his neck.

His hand slides under her shirt, fingers wide, trails up her ribs. She moves her knee, rolls her hips a little and now he’s on top of her completely, the thin fabric of her pajama shorts bunching against his weight, her loose t-shirt rising slowly as his hand goes higher.

It all feels like relief. He’s kissing her mouth again, she’s kissing back, her hands moving up and down his sides, lightly, hesitating, and he thinks that maybe this shouldn’t be so nice, all at once, right away. Maybe they’re lucky.

He chickens out, his hand sliding around to her back rather than further up. He slows their kisses, stares at her, at this new expression on her face, all soft and confident, happy and a little mischievous. He hopes he gets to see it a lot, in the future.

“Wow.” It comes out of him without him meaning to say it. God he’s such a dork.

She just smiles at him again, rubs her thumb across his cheek with fondness. He rolls off of her and they lay there, grinning, side by side until suddenly the room is bright and he’s blinking awake at the feeling of movement next to him.

“So.” MJ coughs, clears her throat. Peter rolls to his side, smiling at how rumbled she looks. He puts out his hand, but she intercepts it with hers, with a smile, more of a smirk really. “My parents aren’t ever home, and when they are, they never come to my room, so I’m not worried. But won’t your aunt, or, and I can’t say that I’ve quite wrapped my head around this, actual real-life Iron-man, be worried about where you’ve been?”

He groans, rubbing his face with his hands. He made a very dramatic announcement, ran from the room like a coward, and then has been missing all night.

“Right. I need to go. Uh. I’ll probably be grounded forever. But after that I’d like to- uh, I’d like to, you know, maybe on go, you know, on a date? If that’s not too lame, or something."

MJ stands, moves around to his side of the bed, grabs his suit, stares at it for a long second before holding it out to him. “Of course it’s not lame, dork.”

He grins as he stuffs his feet into the fabric, pulls it up with practiced ease. He slaps the spider on his chest and it shrinks down onto him. MJ watches with her disinterested expression, but he notes that she doesn’t even blink the entire time he’s doing it. He leans forward, gives her a quick kiss that pulls up that grin he thinks may one day be the death of him, awkwardly pulls open the latch and slides out the window after putting on his mask.

MJ leans out, staring at him. “Yeah. This is going to take a little time to get used to.”

He just laughs, waves as he swings away.

His grin is gone by the time he’s at his own window. Aunt May is there, looking at a photo of him and Ben, touching their faces with small smile that seems like it hurts.

She starts as he opens the window, puts the frame down and stands. They look at each other for a second. Then, at the same time, semi-shout, “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been really immature about this, Aunt May, I shouldn’t have-”

“I’ve been going about this all wrong, Peter, I really-”

“What you were asking for wasn’t unreasonable, I just-”

“This is all my fault.”

“How? How is this your fault?”

“Because I didn’t want you to be Spider-man.” She’s looking at him with wide eyes. “I don’t. Still. I want you to hang out with Ned and make robots and stay on the top of your class and go to some really smart college, and be whatever you want, because I know it’ll be amazing. All I could see was that Spider-man was getting in the way of that. It felt like an annoying, unhealthy hobby, that if I was a responsible guardian, I would put a stop to it. Even if you hated me for it.”

She steps closer to him, looking up at him with earnest eyes. He’s still not used to being inches taller than her now. “But you won’t stop, will you? Even if I made your life hard, even if I did everything I could to stop you?”

He shakes his head. “I-I don’t know what I’m doing, most of the time. But I can’t ignore it. I can’t pretend like I don’t see them anymore.”

“See who?”

“All those monsters people don’t want to see. The people they drag into dark corners, the horrible things they do. May, the world, it’s -it’s so much more worse than I thought. There’s no justice, no one cares. I can’t - I can’t not care about them, not anymore.”

May’s lip trembles. “I can’t imagine how hard it was for you to have seen what happened to Ben. After all this time, I always thought that was the trauma, all by itself. It never occurred to me that you’d feel guilty for it. And Peter, whatever else we take from this conversation, it’s incredibly important that you listen to me on this.”

Peter nods, wants to look away from the intensity of all this, but he doesn’t. He watches May’s face harden. “The only person responsible for Ben’s death is the man that pulled out his gun and shot him. Only him. Not you. Not Ben for interfering where he shouldn’t have. Not the ambulance for coming too late. Not you for being a fourteen year old kid who was watching his uncle being threatened. None of you. None of you. Only that man, who pulled out his gun, and shot Ben. Only him.”

“I caught him. You know. I found him later. I-I wasn’t in a great head space. But I just, I webbed him up, left him in front of a police station with the composite sketch of him, so they’d know who he was.”

“You caught him? The police just said it was an anonymous tip. You? You found him?” May looks a little lost, pulls him into a hug. “Oh, that must have been so hard. This all must have been so hard for you.”

He wraps his arms around her too, not sure what to say.

“Which is why I’m going to change how I’m handling this going forward. I’m - I’m not going to punish you for being Spider-man anymore. I want to know what’s going on with you. I want to support you, support Spider-man. I hate the idea that you’ve been seeing such terrible things and haven’t been able to talk to anyone about it. I’m a nurse, I see terrible things all the time, but I have other nurses, friends that I can talk to about it. I would have gone crazy a long time ago, if I didn’t have that. I’m so sorry, Peter, that you’ve been carrying this all on your own.”

She steps back, takes his hand in hers. They grin at each other and Peter feels lighter than he has since he was a kid. Like a boulder, like the world, has slid from his back. It will be so much easier to swing around this way, he thinks.

“But first. You stayed the night at MJs.”

The grin slides from his face. “Wh-How?”

“Tony told me, you dingus. Your suit has a gps-”

“Oh my god.”

“Peter, now, I need to ask you-”

“No-no you don’t, nothing-”

“Do you have condoms? I know I have you the sex talk awhile ago, but these things need repeating-”

“No they don’t. No they don’t. Nothing happened May. Oh my god.”

“Nothing happened? Nothing at all?”

Peter struggles for a second, because that’s not entirely true and May has him pinned down with that stare that’s found impossible to lie to since he was seven. “Jesus. I’m a virgin, May, let it go-”

She snorts, shaking her head. “Now is precisely the right time to talk about it, then. Do you have condoms?”

He stares up at the ceiling, wondering if the criminal betting pool could do him a favor and strike him down now.

By the time that Monday rolls around again, it doesn’t feel so much like a dark inevitable cloud.

He sees Ned in the hallway and makes his way over to him. Ned glances up at him and then looks away with a sigh. “Oh, if it isn’t my former best friend.”

“Oh, C’mon, Ned.”

“C’mon you, Peter! You haven’t spoken to me in like a week. What the hell man?”

Peter shrugs, hugs Ned around the shoulders and hoists him up into the air a little. “I’m sorry I’ve been missing, lately, Ned. I’ve missed you.”

Ned scoffs, then huffs, before sighing. “You gotta put me down man, I’m like hundred pounds too heavy to be picked up.”

“No you’re not, see?” Peter swings him around a little.

Some of their classmates look over, confused about how this is happening. But mostly people don’t notice.

Ned can’t help but chuckle. “Fine. Fine. Put me down dude.”

They stare at each other for a second, then do their handshake. They head down the hallway. “What’s been going on with you, anyway?”

“Just some family stuff, but it’s all good now.”

Ned nods, easily accepting this. Man, he really has missed him. MJ is further down the hallway, talking to her Lit teacher.

“Oh, also, MJ and I are dating.”

Ned’s head snaps towards him. “What?”

Peter catches MJ’s eye, waves his hand. She looks at him, flips him off, then gives him a wink.

“Oh yeah, she’s totally into me.”

“What?” Ned looked less surprised when Peter came into his room dressed as Spider-man.

* * *

Mr. Stark is smirking at him as he enters the tower from the balcony.

“Shut up.”

“I’m glad you and your aunt made up.”

“Thank you. Now shut up-”

“I ran a whole background check on MJ, so rest assured that your girlfriend isn’t secretly a hydra agent, or something-”

“Oh my god, you can’t just-”

“Do you have any condoms? I was a bit wild in my youth, but I was never without condoms, real life saver, those.”

Peter groans, falls face first into the couch. “Why can’t the crime betting pool kill me noooow?”

“Crime betting pool? What? No. First. I have something to say.”

Mr. Stark sits on the edge of the class coffee table. Peter turns his head to look at him, not bothering to sit up straight.

“I’m an atheist. Have been most of my life.”

“Yeah?” Peter can feel his eyebrows furrowing.

“But lately I think that there must be some kind of higher power, who has a really crappy sense of humor.”

“What?”

“Because kid, there are many layers, many, many layers of deep irony to me saying this to someone else. I mean it has to be cosmic retribution, at this point.”

“Huh?”

“Peter. You’re not responsible for every bad thing that happens that you can’t stop. We feel like we have to help, we want to help, but there is no long term game here if you beat yourself every time something goes wrong. If you push yourself more in response, you’ll end up dead. I’ve been there. I’ve nearly ruined my own life, I nearly permanently hurt those closest to me. So you see. I want you to do better. Be a hero, skip the whole martyr complex.”

Peter frowns, sits up straight. “I-I’ll try.”

Mr. Stark claps him on the shoulder. “That’s all you can do. Now. What’s this about a crime betting pool?”

Peter laughs to himself. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I’ve pissed enough people off that organized crime has like a betting pool, high numbers, for anyone who can get a hit on me, especially a permanent one.”

Mr. Stark looks horrified. “What? You? What?”

Peter grins at him with a shrug. “Eh. Life’s weird, isn’t it?”


End file.
